Sprectres in the Fog
by Dark Raven Wrote
Summary: Harry knows it is Malfoy curled up at the base of the tree in the same way that he knows he will not be walking out of this forest. They are spectres in this fog together while the world outside waits for them. HPDM. Written for HPDrizzle'15.


**A/N:** Written for hpdrizzle'15. Okay, this was difficult! The first half rolled off my pencil and then I had to drag myself through the last 500 but i think it turned out okay. It's got a character study feel to it, a bit prosey. Also thank you to my lovely last minute beta, Cricket, who helped me so much in my moments of panic and need. :) Anyway, enjoy.

 **Prompt:** A quiet moment in the fog.

* * *

 **Spectres in the Fog**

Harry knows that it is Malfoy curled up at the base of the tree in the same way that he knows he will not be walking out of this forest.

He can't see him through all the grey, but Harry has been watching him sneak around Hogwarts for years. He recognises the defeated slope of his long spine and the weary looseness of his arms, which are draped over his bent knees.

There might be tears on Malfoy's cheeks, like there are tracks in the dirt on Harry's. Or he might be panicking - breaths catching silently in his chest - suffocating under the weight of other people's choices, as Harry did while he was convincing himself that walking into this forest was the right thing to do. Or Malfoy's face might be blank, in silent acceptance, like Harry's finally is now.

Harry likes this faux anonymity. He knows this spectre in the fog is Malfoy. Harry knows that Malfoy knows it is him as well, with that sixth sense he has that alerts him whenever Harry's eyes touch his skin. It is comfortable and calm - time for Harry to pause and take a breath. They are in this empty space together. They are with each other but they are also no, hovering in a private limbo - the world waiting for them outside the grey.

The natural fog of the forest is a light, whispering touch against his cheek, cool across his heated forehead. It reminds Harry of his mother's ghostly, reassuring smile of moments ago, before she - before all of them - was chased away. Harry suspects that their spirits, all pure goodness in corporeal form, cannot survive the cloying decay of the shadowy flood the dementors have left clawing at his robes. For that is the second fog, dense and heavy and like a million skeletal fingers sliding on his bare skin, snagging.

Harry can feel the change in pressure where one meets the other, closing around his throat.

And Malfoy is entirely submerged in it, breathing in the diseased poison that slithered out from under the dementors' cloaks. Harry wonders how quickly it is disintegrating any hope Malfoy has left. How long does it take to wipe out every last speck of happiness from a mortal man?

Something snaps under Harry's nervous feet - he wouldn't be at all surprised if it were bone - and Malfoy's head whirls around as if he's a feral animal, wounded and wary.

Harry can see him clearly through the mirror in his mind. Eyes bright. Teeth bared. Hair dark and ragged with sweat. Lips red and cheeks flushed against pale skin.

He should move on, leave Malfoy here, avoid the acknowledgement they will have to face. But that would mean leaving the serenity of the fog and striding towards the destiny the world has laid out at his feet.

He could call out to Malfoy, reassure him, make light of their situation, give some closure to the rocky rivalry that is about to come to a sudden and complete end. Circe, they could chat about the bloody weather, and Harry could delude himself into thinking it is polite or for Malfoy's sake. It would be a lie, of course.

All it would achieve is to avoid the unavoidable for a few extra seconds. One way or another, this war is only going to end when Harry raises his head and looks a warped, twisted version of Tom Riddle in the eye as an equal. The odds of the fates favouring him in the battle that will follow are slim to none. There will be blood, there will be tears, and Harry doubts either will be falling from Riddle.

His fingers brush against the resurrection stone that's hidden safely in his pocket. It is light when he cradles it in his palm and smooth when he grazes his fingernails across its surface. It feels like any pebble he could have picked up on a whim. There is no gravitas to it - not until it warms against his skin, scolding like molten metal, listening to his deepest loss and activating itself with the power of his yearning and loneliness.

For now, the stone remains cold, like the fog.

"Who is there?" Malfoy's voice trembles, deep but unsure and so familiar Harry shivers. Shivers for the loss of their innocence and the friendships that will never be born.

Harry steps closer and keeps going until he can see the whites of Malfoy's eyes flashing. He wants to reply, but what can he say? What can he give voice to that isn't redundant or patronising or depressingly obvious or, Merlin forbid, small talk?

The toe of his shoe brushes against the shadow of Malfoy's robe, draped across the rotting earth. They are this close, but Harry can't see his face, only the stark colours blurring into one another - the cherry red of his lips, the glinting of grey and white as his eyes fly over Harry's face, probably seeing much the same thing that Harry is.

The only logical thing to do is to lean down, so he does, although he still doesn't know exactly what he is going to do. His knees hit the hard ground, creaking under his weight. Harry suddenly feels old and decrepit, like he has lived a hundred lifetimes when in reality even this one has not been his own.

Malfoy scowls at him, his jaw tight. It is a front, Harry knows. As soon as they became aware of each other's presence, they'd both known who the other was, but Malfoy has only now remembered that he is meant to hate Harry.

It is this that makes up Harry's mind about what he wants to do. For once, not because someone says it is right, or because someone has planned it out this way, or because it is his only choice other than death. He decides he wants to show Malfoy a kindness. A white flag. The upturned hand of friendship.

His forehead bumps gently against Malfoy's, off centre and clammy, but he stays there. The muscles in his stomach clench, and he tells himself it is because he is trying to hold himself steady.

"I saw your mother leave the castle less than an hour ago," Harry breathes into his ear, lips brushing the gentle skin of his ear lobe. It is cold to the touch, like the air that hisses across his throat with Malfoy's sharp inhale. But this is what he can give Malfoy. This is all he has to give him.

"And father?" Malfoy asks against his jaw, scraping on the line of stubble Harry never had time to think about shaving.

Harry shakes his head minutely. "I haven't seen him." He thinks about saying he's sorry for it, but they would both recognise the lie. Harry has no love for Lucius Malfoy. Malfoy's spiked hair scratches on Harry's damp forehead with his jerky nod.

Harry gulps in one taste of the heavy fog down here, so different to the freshness of the one above. It sticks in his lungs, fills them up like burning sulphur. It is enough to wake him up.

He stands, his back cracking, and leaves Malfoy there, defeated under an old tree.

The world spins on outside the grey and Voldemort is waiting for him.


End file.
